(C) Daily Kos This story was originally published by Daily Kos and is unaltered. . . . . . . . . . . August: Notes from the Edge of Memory [1] ['This Content Is Not Subject To Review Daily Kos Staff Prior To Publication.'] Date: 2025-08-28 There’s something peculiar about being in your eighties and living in an independent living center. When you’re alone, rummaging through the shredded confetti of your life’s memories, you begin to wonder—like the woman in the Christopher Moore quote below—if you’ve been many different people. “Who are you?” he asked. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I am a corpse and a slave, but I am also a trickster and a sea wife. I am a hunter and fisher, and a seamstress and a cook. I am a model for a painter. My friend Wally says I am a lunatic. Sometimes, I am Raven, who fetched fire and the sun, and sometimes I am Sedna, who brings all the game and the fishes to the People. I think I have been a killer, but I don’t remember killing anyone. I am probably English, but I might be Scottish, I don’t remember. I try to think back, every night as I fall asleep. I try to remember who I was, but there are many times I’ve lived in that I can’t see. There is a famous doctor in Vienna who is trying to help me, and he says I am jealous of my father’s penis, but I don’t remember. I don’t know who I am. I just don’t know.” “I am Jakob,” said the boy. — Anima Rising by Christopher Moore The difference is that I can assure you I was never jealous of my father’s penis. In fact, though nothing to write home about, my own was perfectly adequate for my needs. August arrived right on schedule, dragging behind it a perfectly decent day. Now, as I sit here at 11 p.m., tapping at this journal, I have the distinct feeling something unusually pleasant happened today—though, for the life of me, I can’t remember what it was. That evening I watched the final episode of Ken Burns’ magnificent opus on the Roosevelts. It began with Franklin’s death and the end of World War II, and ended with Eleanor’s rise to prominence and, finally, her passing. It struck me that about a century passed from the rise of Teddy Roosevelt to Eleanor’s death—a period in which the United States went from fledgling nation to world leader. The Roosevelts, in their various incarnations, were arguably the most influential political and moral force of that transition. And yet, barely fifty years after Eleanor left us, that shining era seems to have sputtered out, replaced by perhaps the worst world leader since Commodus—a Roman emperor some historians call a “self-indulgent, dim-witted oaf,” not to mention “sick, cruel, sadistic, deluded.” A description which, coincidentally, fits the current White House occupant like a bespoke toga. “The problem with pig blood was how horrible it smelled when it went off and how quickly it spoiled on a balmy evening. On the upside, getting several buckets of the stuff was easy in the Mercantile Alliance. All it took was a quick trip to the local butcher. Unlike human blood, there was no need for murder.” — Two Necromancers, a Fortress, and a Titan by L. G. Estrella I had grown tired of the two books I was reading. They were weird enough for my tastes, but the stories were neither interesting, clever, nor amusing—qualities I demand in my dotage literature. So I returned to one of my preferred authors, L.G. Estrella, and his latest novel Two Necromancers, a Fortress, and a Titan, featuring my favorite necromancer, Timmy. One morning at breakfast I sat with the Armenian woman. We discussed things Armenian, after which I returned to my room and watched cooking shows. I was enthralled with my beloved Julia Child, while my wife N. was enraptured by a muscular vegan bodybuilder with tattoos climbing up his forearms. The rest of the day may have been more than a nothing-burger, but by the time I wrote this, I had already forgotten it. A few days later I found a handwritten note clipped to my door from Rita (or Reba, or whatever). She’s our resident lunatic, obsessed with us for reasons unknown. She cares for—or is married to—P., a man confined to a wheelchair who drools constantly. The note was addressed to me, N., and the dog (whom she calls PooPoo). It rambled about “unsung heroines,” “support dogs,” and “Hollywood couples.” “Intro to my book for migrants, intellectuals, authors, support dogs _. Multi Cultural + Ready. From: Rita (Pls Ask me) Intro to mini book named ‘Unsung Heroes.’ Everyone has their challenges; yet the unsung heroines like N. make it all worthwhile. For adult children N. Super-heroine plays the music we all love. PooPoo guards under the piano; ensuring that all of us who love music have fun and PooPoo understands all of the multicultural + disability, civil + human rights. Happy Dr. month.”Continuing on the back: “Hollywood Couple Choose this Please Signed Rita K. (AKA Just keep it confidential, ok?) Please draw a pic of a super heroine. Possible name for N. might be ‘N. Super-heroine.’ Professor N.is too much for N. to explain about grown children. Part of Hollywood Couple. Super Hero J. understands what everyone said. He repeats it back so we can all learn more. Rita _ N. said, “She really is writing a book. I just hope she spells my name right. It means nothing in Spanish.” This was all above my pay grade. I thought I’d tiptoe away. Too late. N. launched into a rant about the publishing business. “They were not interested in Indians,” she fumed. I tried to slip away again, but then it got interesting: she told me about a Native American woman who had been Dave Brubeck’s piano teacher in Ione, California. N. invited her to appear with her at a presentation on Native Americans in California. N. was upset that attendees were disappointed the piano teacher didn’t arrive in traditional dress. “The Native People in California practiced peace,” N. exclaimed. She also complained that her children refuse to read her novels. She told me that the name Sacramento came from the first riverboat captain to reach the area. He saw the animal herds and the people living in harmony with the land and thought the whole place was a sacrament, a gift from God. She also recounted how a Native American man she met while writing one of her novels took her into the reeds of a marsh and told her she shared their religion. The rest of the day is a blank. Whether N. cast a memory-erasing spell or my brain simply refused to record it, I neither know nor care. After a good night’s sleep, I woke at seven and convinced myself to remain in bed until I died and my skin shriveled like that of an Egyptian mummy. For ninety blissful minutes, I lay still, savoring my slow-motion exit—until N. jabbed me with her elbow and growled, “Get up and walk the dog.” So the dog and I circled the lake. At breakfast, we had a rollicking discussion about aging. Movies always show we decrepits as either grumpy curmudgeons or fountains of wisdom. In reality, most of us here at Charon’s Rest are just exhausted, in pain, and trying to survive the day. Later, I sat on the sofa contemplating death and realizing that the longer I live, the less I care. On the bright side, N.’s obsession with the potted plants on our window sill made life feel worth living—at least for another cup of tea. That evening we had dinner with Suellen and CoCo’s Mom, where the topics of conversation were fear, death, and manicotti. We ended the night with two movies: the first, about an English professor in Argentina under dictatorship who befriends a penguin (true story, supposedly); the second, a limited series about the birth of the motion picture industry. As I prepared for bed, I did not feel well. No specific pain, but my head felt as though it were expanding and contracting. The next morning was lovely. I walked the dog around the lake in warm sunshine. N. slept late, so I went to breakfast alone, where I ate French toast and contemplated theology. For reasons best left unexplored, I chose Jeffrey Epstein as my model for deep reflection. I regretted it halfway through. After thirty minutes, my grand conclusion was this: I like the smell of incense and the sound of Gregorian chant. And that was that. A few days later, while walking the dog, I ran into Slate (a companion dog) and his walker. She told me one of the residents had vanished in the night chasing her escaped cat. Back inside, I got a call from my son. His wife and daughter had left for a month in Japan. With no close friends nearby, he was lonely. I tried to cheer him up. But failed, as fathers usually do with sons. I treated my paternal remorse with a grim Italian series about a policewoman who abandoned her son, only to have him grow up, become a father-to-be, and get murdered. She finds the killer… and kills him. After that uplifting experience, I went to bed. Life here at Charon’s Rest seems to revolve mostly around walking the dog — eating and sleeping too, I guess. Also television and a bit of music. Anyway, one morning Booboo, with the instincts of a security guard, barked ferociously at an elderly woman exercising by the lake. She smiled and called him cute, proving charm gets away with everything. At breakfast later, I chatted with MM about Charon’s Rest Community Council business. When I asked N. what she remembered of breakfast, she said, “Nothing much.” Which is also my opinion of most committee meetings. One day I declared that a nap is simply horizontal yoga. Later, while napping, I woke in panic that my lack of exercise would consign me to the grave days earlier than if I were buff like the Terminator. So I sat in a chair and flailed my arms and legs for half an hour before collapsing on the sofa. N. made coffee, and Al Jolson crooned old favorites while I recovered. Refreshed, I wondered what else healthy I could do. Unfortunately, it was already 2 p.m. and we had dinner at 4. That left me just enough time to decide against another nap and return to Timmy the Necromancer. I’ve always believed that reading improves memory and soothes the soul. At minimum, it beats watching me do seated calisthenics. Sunday evening, after a hot day that peaked at 104 degrees, the dog and I shuffled to the park. I sat in the shade while he conducted important dirt research. Later, an egret stood poised at the pond, a master of Waiting for Fish. That night N. and I watched a dark, rainy, spooky film in which almost nothing happened. Five stars for atmosphere, two for plot, and three for being excellent background noise while we dozed. The next morning, my sister called to say her husband would arrive to drive us to Mendocino tomorrow. This triggered a four-hour frenzy of preparation. Crisis one: what to do with the dog. No one at Charon’s Rest wanted him. Kennels were full. Then, salvation: N’’s daughter learned Capitol Corridor had changed its rules. Small dogs in carriers were now allowed. Another daughter loaned us her cat carrier. Problem solved. Packing took me fifteen minutes. It took N. several hours, much turmoil, and ended in dizziness. I ended smug. She ended exasperated. My brother-in-law finally arrived around 3 p.m. We set off at 4, stopped for dinner in Upper Lake, and walked into the Blue Wings Saloon. Tonight, there was live music: a middle-aged man on electric organ and a woman in her fifties who dressed like she was homeless but sang like a dream. Her voice wasn’t powerful, but her phrasing was perfection. We later learned she was Japanese and had once been a jazz singer in Tokyo. A fitting end to another August day. [END] --- [1] Url: https://www.dailykos.com/stories/2025/8/28/2340761/-August-Notes-from-the-Edge-of-Memory?pm_campaign=front_page&pm_source=more_community&pm_medium=web Published and (C) by Daily Kos Content appears here under this condition or license: Site content may be used for any purpose without permission unless otherwise specified. via Magical.Fish Gopher News Feeds: gopher://magical.fish/1/feeds/news/dailykos/